


Astron 1390

by theblindtorpedo



Series: Frodo and Sam Short Fics [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood Friends, Class Differences, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: Frodo has difficulty adjusting to his new life with Uncle Bilbo, but an unexpected friendly face might bring some purpose into the lonely Master's life.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee
Series: Frodo and Sam Short Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/111842
Kudos: 5





	Astron 1390

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2012 on tumblr for an old friend who i miss very much

The first time Frodo would watch Sam in the garden, Sam would not notice him right away.

It was on an early day in Spring when he decided to open the window in Bag End’s master bedroom, to let the crisp air circulate the room and carry the musk of winter away. The warm wind blew, and Frodo felt the melancholy of separation that had steadily pulled at him during the darker months loosen. As his mind grew lighter so did hope for his future. He could imagine making a home here with Uncle Bilbo. Soon the pining for Brandy Hall would cease, and be remembered as not but childish passion, but he had to fill his days with activity, to keep the memories from hurting to keenly. As he folded clothes and replaced books, Frodo resolved to create new memories, equally precious to those gathered in the last twenty one years of his life. He would be outgoing. He would make efforts to engage fully in his studies. He would participate in all the sundry fairs and celebrations. He would visit relatives often .He would find a lass among the numerous pretty things in Hobbiton whom he could court. He would be a great Master of Bag End and its estate.

It violently occurred to Frodo that perhaps these pangs were not for Brandy Hall, but for a carefree childhood. It was one thing to care for a few unruly cousins and quite another to have families depend on him for their livelihood. The ritual cleaning of Bag End was just the beginning. Uncle Bilbo had said that over time one saw it as not work, but a rest, a time of meditation in repetitive action before the unpredictable nature of their responsibilities. Frodo was neat, but had never taken great joy in cleaning, as he knew some did. He had been methodic and efficient; in full knowledge that the more time he loitered the less he would have to engage in play. He had learned long before his peers that the time one spent properly cleaning was less than time wasted in chastisement for improper care. The idea that cleaning might be a drawn out respite was novel.

He stopped at the window for a breath of the cleansing air, considering such a future, when he was taken by the sight of a brown head buried in the flowerbeds. The eyes were turned toward the ground, its oblivious owner consumed in the work of digging holes for planting. He was initially surprised to see a young hobbit seemingly violating his garden, but then he remembered that Gaffer Gamgee had several sons. This must be one of them. The sheets, pulled in the interrupted process of bed making, lay forgotten in his arms as Frodo pondered how little he knew of the Gamgees’ son. He had met him once it was certain. Last Halimath, on the auspicious shared birthday, Bilbo had thrown a great party, making much ado in properly introducing his heir. A copy of the Will had been drawn up for display, even the red signatures replicated to quiet any who dared challenge it. Although most viewers were in search for clues to old Baggins’ fabled dragon horde and would be sorely disappointed by only a vague “and other quest related acquisitions.” Most of the folk who attended were in agreement with Gaffer Gamgee, that a fresh face that could be trained in the customary ways of running the Baggins estate was much better than an older cousin coming in with his own uprooting ideas. At the end of all things, Bilbo was still master and looked to remain so for a good few years. So the folk of Hobbiton took kindly to the new inhabitant of Bag End on the Hill. Of course, their enthusiasm could also be attributed to Bilbo’s generosity when it came to food. Frodo had felt as if his hands would fall off with the flurries of Burrows, Boffins, Goodbodies, Proudfoots and sundry other Hobbiton families that came to shake one hand in congratulations and receive a mathom from the other. Although he had long forgotten many faces, he remembered Hamfast Gamgee, a familiar face about Bag End. 

Frodo had seen gaggles of children from afar many a time since his relocation, some of which must have been of Gamgee stock: hollering and whooping as they threw a crude ball, jumping in Rethe’s rain puddles, chatting and shivering as they carried bundles of firewood home for the winter. He did not remember this one as being special in any sort, at least if the evidence that he was in his garden had not been presented Frodo would have been unable to pinpoint his ancestry.

“What’s your name?”

The child looked up.

“Samwise Gamgee.”

“Well, mine’s Frodo Baggins.”

Sam nodded. “Master Frodo.”

It pleased him to hear his name in that childish pitch again. Suddenly he was swept up in a pang of homesickness as memories of Brandybuck children giggling as he swept them up in his arms swam through his head.  _ Frodo, Frodo, Frodo! _ He wondered how Merry was doing. He had begged to remain to see his cousin’s eighth birthday, but Bilbo had insisted that the month long visit since Yule had been quite enough. He missed him now. He missed all the children that preferred his company to their parents or nurses. Everyone had been pleased by his role as child watcher. Perhaps this one would take to him as well.

“How old are you?”

“Just passed ten.”

“Yet you are working on my garden?”

“I like the garden.”

“Don’t you play with the other children?”

“I play plenty. This afternoon I am to play hoops.”

“Hoops?”

“Yes. You have a large hoop then you roll it along with your stick and whomever’s the fastest wins.”

“That seems a fine pastime.”

“I enjoy it, Master Frodo.” Sam smiled. He had by now halted all work, the hand that clutched his spade coming to rest on his cropped trousers, the dirt falling off and mingling its rich brown with the sun bleached beige of the fabric. Frodo held a thought of sympathy for the Gamgee sisters and their days of laundry, but he did not wish the dirt away. The hobbit-lad looked at home knee deep in the stuff. Frodo tried to imagine him trussed up in the tailored forest green waistcoat and breeches typical of the children of finer families and failed. This seed would never flourish wrapped tight in cloth within a wooden hole. It had to have plenty of room to run about, to flourish, to dig deep, to intertwine with other free plants. But now all its attention was turned towards Frodo who leaned contemplatively on the windowsill, his head extended so as to be closer to where Sam sat.

“What else do you enjoy?”

“I do enjoy gardening. Not much time in the day after work. Enough for only a game or a story.”

“Ah stories! What stories do you know? Bilbo knows a great many.”

“That I do,” Bilbo’s voice interrupted, “But, now is neither the time nor place. Although I am reluctant to do so I simply must pull you away from that talking window or I shall have no sheets to sleep on tonight.”

He stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, but the wrinkles around his eyes betraying amusement rather than anger at having caught his nephew shirking his duties. Frodo turned sheepishly away from the window and Bilbo placed a hand in the crook of his back as he guided him towards the laundry.

“A fine lad I sense, that Sam. Hamfast tells me he’s already showing a perchance for gardening. Must be in the blood.”

“Yes,” Frodo said softly.

Bilbo peered at him with a curious eye. “I believe he’s about the same age as young Meriadoc of whom you were so fond . . .”

“Three years older.”

“Ah, even better!” Bilbo’s features gleamed with inspiration. He clapped a now puzzled Frodo on the back. “Don’t let anyone tell you your Uncle isn’t clever, Frodo. I have an idea. Drop those sheets and come to the study.”

“But the bed-“

“Leave it be. The bed can wait an hour and none will be the worse. I need your opinion on Sam Gamgee and some books.”

“My opinion? We only just met!”

“And you both seem to have taken a good enough liking to each other. Come along.” 


End file.
